From ‘Neon Genesis Evangelion’ Pilgrimage to ‘Shin Ultraman’ Shrine Visits: The New Otaku Pilgrimage Economy in Rural Japan
In the early 2000s, otaku pilgrimage—seichi junrei—was a distinctly urban ritual. Fans crowded Shinjuku Station’s west exit to photograph the exact spot where Shinji Ikari stood in Neon Genesis Evangelion’s final episode; they queued for hours at Akihabara’s Evangelion Café for limited-edition miso ramen served in NERV-branded bowls; they snapped selfies beside life-size Rei Ayanami statues installed temporarily at Tokyo Metro’s Yoyogi-Uehara Station. These were acts of fandom rooted in infrastructure: subway lines, department stores, and commercial districts engineered for density, visibility, and repeat visitation. But over the past decade, a quiet yet profound geographic and spiritual recalibration has taken place—one that relocates pilgrimage from Tokyo’s concrete arteries to rural shrines nestled in mist-wrapped mountains, where Ultraman’s red-and-silver silhouette now appears alongside kami enshrined for over 1,800 years.
The Urban Exhaustion of Early Seichi Junrei
The Evangelion boom (1995–2003) established the template: anime locations as secular landmarks. According to data from the Japan Tourism Agency (JTA), over 78% of all documented seichi junrei visits between 2001 and 2009 occurred within Greater Tokyo or Osaka. A 2006 survey by Dentsu Institute for Human Studies found that 64% of respondents cited “authenticity of setting” as their primary motivation—not character affinity, not merchandise, but the physical fidelity of the real-world location to its on-screen depiction. That authenticity, however, was increasingly performative. Shinjuku Station’s Evangelion signage was removed in 2012 after complaints about congestion; the Akihabara café closed in 2015 amid rent hikes and declining foot traffic. By 2017, Tokyo Metropolitan Government reports noted a 22% year-on-year drop in “anime-themed tourism revenue” from core urban zones—a trend mirrored in app analytics: downloads of the official Evangelion Pilgrimage Navigator fell from 412,000 in 2014 to just 87,000 in 2022.
“We hit diminishing returns,” explains Dr. Emi Tanaka, cultural anthropologist at Kyoto Seika University and author of Pilgrimage Without Altars. “Urban seichi junrei became self-referential—fans visiting sites because other fans had visited them, not because the site held meaning beyond its screen capture. The locations weren’t sacred; they were citation points.”
When Ultraman Meets Kumano: The 2024 Hongū Taisha Collaboration
That paradigm shifted decisively in March 2024, when Toho Co., Ltd. and Wakayama Prefecture jointly announced a partnership with Kumano Hongū Taisha, one of the three grand shrines of the UNESCO World Heritage–listed Kumano Sanzan complex. Unlike previous anime–shrine tie-ups—such as the 2018 My Hero Academia collaboration with Kanda Myōjin in Chiyoda, which featured only temporary banners and themed omikuji—the Hongū Taisha initiative embedded Ultraman into Shinto liturgy, architecture, and community economics.
At the heart of the project lies the Ultra Power Goshuin-chō: a hand-stamped devotional notebook sold exclusively at the shrine’s shamusho (administrative office). Each page bears calligraphy by Chief Priest Masahiro Yamada, inscribing the phrase Chikyū o Mamoru Chikara (“The Power That Protects the Earth”) in ink mixed with powdered amethyst sourced from the nearby Nachi Falls—geologically tied to the shrine’s ancient water purification rites. More significantly, every ¥2,000 purchase includes a ofuda (wooden talisman) consecrated during a special harae (purification rite) performed at dawn on the spring equinox, wherein priests recited the Kojiki’s creation myth while facing Mount Omine—the same peak where Ultraman’s “Spacium Beam” was digitally composited in the film’s climax.
By July 2024, the campaign had raised ¥14.2 million—exceeding its original ¥10 million target by 42%. These funds are earmarked exclusively for structural restoration of the shrine’s 13th-century haiden (worship hall), damaged during Typhoon Hagibis in 2019. Crucially, donors receive no digital receipts or NFTs; instead, names of contributors who donate ¥50,000 or more are inscribed on a newly commissioned ema board hung in the shrine’s east corridor—a space traditionally reserved for prayers related to protection and longevity.
| Initiative Element | Traditional Seichi Junrei (e.g., NGE) | Shin Ultraman × Hongū Taisha (2024) |
|---|---|---|
| Primary Location | Shinjuku Station (Tokyo Metropolis) | Kumano Hongū Taisha (Wakayama Prefecture, population: 1,942) |
| Funding Mechanism | Licensed merchandise sales (cafés, pop-ups) | Donation-linked ofuda + goshuin-chō (68% of revenue goes to shrine renovation) |
| Ritual Integration | None — purely visual/photo ops | Harae rites, equinox alignment, geological material sourcing (Nachi Falls amethyst) |
| Local Government Role | Permitting only; no subsidies | ¥3.2M subsidy from Wakayama Prefecture + bilingual signage co-designed with shrine priests |
Signage, Subsidies, and the Rise of the Sacred Route Map
The logistical scaffolding behind this shift is both bureaucratic and deeply intentional. Wakayama Prefecture allocated ¥3.2 million under its 2023 Machizukuri Anime Support Program, funding bilingual road signage featuring Ultraman’s silhouette rendered in sōsho (cursive calligraphy) alongside shrine directional markers. These signs do not say “Ultraman Spot #7”—they read “Kumano Hongū Taisha e Mukau Michi — Chikyū o Mamoru Chikara no Michi” (“The Path Toward Kumano Hongū Taisha — The Road of the Power That Protects the Earth”).
This reframing signals a broader cartographic evolution. Whereas apps like AniPoke (a defunct Evangelion–Pokémon hybrid navigator) once mapped Tokyo in discrete, gamified waypoints—“Find the Eva-01 manhole cover near Roppongi Hills!”—regional governments now commission “Sacred Route Maps” (reisei rote). The Kumano version, distributed free at Wakayama’s 14 municipal offices, traces a 42-kilometer walking path from the JR Kii-Tanabe Station to Hongū Taisha, annotated with dual-layered captions:
- Layer 1 (Shinto): “Here, pilgrims historically purified themselves in the Yunomine Onsen before ascending to Hongū.”
- Layer 2 (Ultraman): “In Shin Ultraman, this onsen’s steam forms the atmospheric backdrop for the scene where Zōffy reveals humanity’s latent potential.”
The map avoids hierarchy—it does not privilege one narrative over the other. Instead, it invites parallel reading, much like the honji suijaku doctrine of medieval Shinto-Buddhist syncretism, wherein kami were understood as local manifestations of universal Buddhist principles. As shrine archivist Yuko Sato notes: “Ultraman isn’t replacing Susanoo-no-Mikoto. He’s joining him—like the kami of fire or wind who entered Kumano’s pantheon centuries ago through shared function: protector, transformer, boundary-crosser.”
Toei’s Kyushu Temple Strategy: Kamen Rider as Guardian Deity
The Hongū Taisha model did not emerge in isolation. Since 2021, Toei Company has pursued a parallel strategy across Kyushu, partnering with over 27 temples and shrines—including the 1,200-year-old Sōfuku-ji in Nagasaki and Yakuo-in on Mount Kōya—to integrate Kamen Rider iconography into existing religious frameworks. At Yakuo-in, for example, the Shōwa Riders (1971–1989 series) are enshrined as gohōjin—guardian deities of the temple’s eastern gate. Their bronze statues, cast using traditional lost-wax techniques, stand flanking the 12th-century nio guardians, each holding not a sword or vajra, but a henshin belt shaped like a lotus seed pod.
Crucially, these installations follow strict doctrinal protocols. When Toei proposed installing a Rider statue at Sōfuku-ji’s main hall, head priest Rev. Kenji Morita declined, citing the hall’s exclusive dedication to Amida Nyorai. Instead, he approved placement in the temple’s chōzuya (water ablution pavilion)—a liminal space where visitors ritually cleanse before prayer. “The Riders are protectors of thresholds,” Morita explained in a 2023 interview with Nagasaki Shimbun. “They belong where transition happens—not in the sanctuary, but at the gate, the path, the basin. That is where they resonate with our practice.”
This theological precision distinguishes the new wave from earlier, crasser commercial tie-ups. In 2010, a One Piece collaboration with a Kyoto temple drew criticism when Luffy’s face was painted directly onto a 17th-century sanmon gate—violating conservation guidelines. The Toei–Kyushu partnerships, by contrast, involve multi-year consultations with the Association of Shinto Shrines and the Japanese Buddhist Federation. Every Rider’s pose, color palette, and symbolic attribute undergoes review: the green-and-gold Kamen Rider Build, for instance, was reconfigured to hold a shaku (ritual scepter) rather than his signature bottle-based weapon, aligning with the deity Fudō Myōō’s iconography at Yakuo-in.
Economic Redistribution: From Tokyo Rent Hikes to Village Revitalization
Beneath the spiritual framing lies a hard economic calculus—one actively reshaping regional demographics. Wakayama Prefecture’s population has declined by 28% since 1995, with 41% of residents aged 65 or older. Yet between April and June 2024, Hongū Taisha recorded 127,000 visitors—a 310% increase over the same period in 2023. Local impact is tangible: the village of Hongū (population: 1,942) opened four new minshuku (family-run guesthouses) in 2024, all staffed by retirees returning from Osaka and Nagoya. One, Ultraman no Ie, offers morning misogi (cold-water purification) led by former JASDF pilots dressed in modified flight suits bearing the Ultra logo.
More structurally, the ¥14.2 million raised has triggered matching-fund obligations under Japan’s Regional Revitalization Tax System. For every ¥1 donated by individuals, the national government contributes ¥0.50 toward infrastructure upgrades—resulting in ¥7.1 million in additional public investment. This funded the reconstruction of the 1920s-era ekimae yu (station bathhouse) into a visitor center with multilingual VR stations allowing users to “walk” the Sacred Route while viewing layered historical/animation footage.
“This isn’t just tourism—it’s demographic triage,” says Hiroshi Nakamura, Director of Wakayama’s Tourism Innovation Bureau. “We’re not asking Tokyo youth to move here permanently. We’re asking them to stay longer, spend deeper, and participate in something that feels consequential—not just consumption, but continuity.”
What Happens When the Pilgrimage Ends?
Perhaps the most revealing metric lies not in revenue or visitor counts, but in ritual persistence. In late June 2024, Hongū Taisha hosted its first Ultraman Matsuri—a two-day festival coinciding with the annual Kumano Hayatama Taisha Reisai. It featured no cosplay contests, no voice-actor panels, no merch booths. Instead, participants joined shrine priests in a norito chant adapted from the Nihon Shoki, with “Ultraman” inserted as a proper noun in the grammatical slot traditionally occupied by “Amaterasu.” Children received chōchin (paper lanterns) painted with the Ultra symbol, to be lit and floated down the Kumano River—an act mirroring the shrine’s 1,200-year-old Hitaki Matsuri.
When asked whether this represents “Shinto dilution,” Chief Priest Yamada offered a quiet rebuttal: “Shinto has never been static. When Buddhism arrived, kami became manifestations of bodhisattvas. When Christianity came, some were recast as angels. Ultraman is not foreign—he arrives with the same mandate as Susano-o: to descend, confront chaos, and restore balance. His light is our hi. His beam is our harai. If that is not Shinto, then what is?”
The answer, increasingly, is being written not in Tokyo boardrooms but on wooden ema boards in mountain villages—where fans bow not just to a fictional hero, but to the stone, the river, the centuries-old roof tiles holding back the rain—and understand, finally, that the pilgrimage was never about the destination. It was about learning how to see the sacred in the screen, and the screen in the sacred.
“The old seichi junrei asked: ‘Where did it happen?’
The new one asks: ‘What does it mean to stand here—and who have stood here before me?’”
— Dr. Emi Tanaka, Kyoto Seika University